For Her
by metacognitive
Summary: Eventually it's just the nervous brother and underage sister that are left taking shots to celebrate. For the SU Quote Challenge.


_Summary: Eventually it's just the nervous brother and underage sister that are left taking shots to celebrate._  
_Character(s): Ron Weasley, Gabrielle Delacour_  
_Prompt: Doubles_  
_Quote: Number 34: "I've always said you can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word."  
__Source: Marcus Cole, Ceremonies of Light and Dark; Babylon 5, Season 3, __Episode 11_  
_Notes: From the Quote Challenge over at the Sober Universe Forum. Do check it out._

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**_For Her_**

_Get up and dance, get up and smile, get up and drink to the days that are gone in the shortest while._  
_~~Simon Fowler_

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There is, inexplicably, joy. There is another child in the family; a little girl with Veela eyes and Weasley hair, just two years after their first victory is born.

Off in the corner, the grandparents sob with joy, English and French mixing as exclamations are swapped, a little blonde girl being passed around to them and her aunts and uncles, being kissed as if it were her whose birth they were celebrating. Finally she is passed off to her fifteen-year-old aunt, who holds her delicately away from her, observing the French features that are so obviously her own.

Whispering to her in their native tongue, she informs the toddler, quietly, "Forgive me, ma petit chou, for you will suffer from silver tongues if they continue," and shushes the fussy girl, placing her head against her chest. The child instantly quiets, relaxing in her aunt's soft hold, the stress of tears and relatives she recognizes only by hair and a few outstanding features getting her.

Rocking slightly, she looks around before deciding that no one would miss her, should she decide to leave. Spotting the brunette girl that one of the brothers seems taken with, she taps her shoulder, beaming at her when she turns. The girl blinks in surprise, but merely nods at her explanation.

"Downstairs," she says simply, "Weez Victoire, should anyone need me." A simple bob of bushy hair and she is on her way, hips swinging as opposed to her hair, which she has cut into a short bob after a brief stint of rebelliousness, though she later liked it's effects.

Ascending the stairs, she is met with the lone twin; he smiles politely at her, tickling the dozing child, who perks up at his voice. "A girl?" he questions, though he undoubtedly already knows.

With a crisp nod she is off again, the stairway oddly quiet as she listens to the dull click her heels make and the soft breathing of the child in her arms. Her walk is brisk, easily sidestepping the star-struck males that attempt to approach her, completely devoid of recognition for the babe she holds. Annoyance rises in her as her grip tightens, lips pressed into a thin line as she glares in contempt at a rather foreword man who blocks her from the St. Mungo's exit, trying and failing to get her name.

Finally she is out on the street, where Muggles pay no attention to the young aunt and niece standing in front of an apparently empty building. She surveys the street in silence; it nears eight in the evening, and the murmuring of voices is soft as many return home. She disdainfully notes that the cafés on each corner are both closed, with only a pub – rather well-lit, she realizes – open and ready to serve her the drink she desperately needs. Not knowing whether they'll say anything about bringing in children, she decides to enter anyway, a chilling breeze sweeping past her, clad only in tights, a pencil-skirt, and a thin sweater, her niece rousing from her slumber with shivers.

Once again she ignores the catcalls, carefully concealing the toddler as she quickly finds a seat, far off in the corner where – hopefully – no one will bother her. She sits there for close to twenty minutes before she is approached. One of the bartenders, a thin blonde girl with too-pale skin, places a drink in front of her, motioning flippantly to a burly man with blue eyes. "Ordered it for ya, love," she says simply, and with that she is on her way.

Giving the man a quick peek from the corner of her eye, she shivers, nursing the drink anyway. She nearly spits it out, however manages to swallow before pushing it away slightly, hoping the man takes notice.

Luckily, she is joined at the table just ten minutes later. When he first sits down, she nearly jumps and runs out of the pub, however his familiar voice calms her.

"You've got Victoire, right?" he looks up, pushing the red hair that constantly hangs in his eyes away, and she stared at the clear blue they held.

"Yes," she answers thickly as he grins at the sleeping child; his niece as well, as she always forgets, "eet was easy to tell zat 'aving 'er around was not necessary for ze rest."

He lets out a soft chuckle before eyeing the drink in front of her; "They didn't ask for an ID?" He continues when she gives him a blank stare, "Hermione says that the legal drinking age for Muggles is eighteen. Apparently you need some sort of card that proves you're eighteen." He shrugs, unconcerned, "I don't see how that can really work. Surely you can just lie about it on the card?"

She, on the other hand, merely cocks her head, answering swiftly, "Zat man, over zere –" and she motions to the stocky brunette with her chin, gently bouncing Victoire as she begins to stir, "paid for eet." She rolls her eyes, which he realizes are not blue like her sister's, but rather a pale, light color he has no name for.

"…ees just like ze rest of zem, non?" he starts when she speaks again, having stared off at the door in contemplation.

"Erm, pardon…?" he says uncertainly, and she once again rolls her eyes, sighing somewhat teasingly and repeating her question.

"I said, 'eet's pazetic zat 'e ees just ze rest of zem,' – 'zem' meaning you men," and she looks at him pointedly, even as he begins to defend himself.

"Hey, I was fourteen and really, Fleur was like the, I dunno, forbidden fruit, is it? Hermione's always going on about it –" She shakes her head, a soft smile gracing her features as his hands begin to gesture vaguely to something she does not understand.

"Eet's fine," she assures him, balancing Victoire in one arm as she places a hand over his. He barely reacts, tilting his head as she pulls back and cradles their respective niece once more.

Fidgeting slightly, he finally asks, "Did he try anything?"

She eyes him incredulously, before settling on, "Ron, would I steel be seeting 'ere – no, would zat man steel be _alive_ if he tried anyzing I was not okay weez?" He gave a sheepish smile.

"You've got a date, then?"

"Non," she sighs, shaking her head, "you forget zat I am only feefteen. And zat man? So obviously a bizarre one…" she veers off topic, asking him suspiciously, "Why do you ask?"

He jumps in surprise, nearly falling backwards as the chair tips. She hides her smile within Victoire's blonde tendrils, watching in amusement as he sputters.

"Honor…? …perverts! Happened to Hermione and Ginny, Harry was – no reason, just…can't have you running off… besides, I mean – promised Bill and Fleur – and you have Victoire so…"

Her laugh distracts him from his babbling, and he runs a hand through his hair as she tries to cover her smile with a hand.

"You've got a rather pretty smile," he mumbles, reaching out slightly to pull her slender fingers away from her lips, and she pauses as a blush colors her own features.

"Ah, zank you," she answers, suddenly nervous, and he looks up as she tries to settle down more comfortably; most comment on her skin, or her hair, or that her walk is relaxed, willowy. On the other hand – "What about –"

"I could hold her if you want –"

_"'ermione?"_

He pauses in the action of reaching for his niece, looking up at her despite her attempts to avoid his gaze.

"Erm," he says, "didn't – it didn't work out. After the war and all…"

They sit in uncomfortable silence for awhile until he asks, "How long have you been here?"

She looks up quizzically, easily answering, "Forty-five meenutes? Per'aps a beet longer." He nods before standing up.

"I'll be back in a moment," he tells her, then turns on his heel and approaches the bar. He's gone for a few minutes, and she catches sight of him turning and grinning at her, before returning to the table holding two double shots.

"Whiskey," he tells her, putting one in front of her and taking the other as his own. He raises one, ignoring her look as she raises a well-shaped eye-brow, cautiously taking the other into her hand, balancing Victoire in her arm once more.

"'ow do I know zat you weel not betray me?" she asks, hiding her amusement once more. Again, he scrambles to answer, before catching her smirk slip past her mask. Blushing, he scowls, before lifting the glass.

"To Dominique Gabrielle Weasley," he toasts, smiling and downing it quickly. She, on the other hand, holds the glass in her hand, staring at him, her smile fading to an expression of awe.

"Gabrielle?" she asks, voice hushed. He smiles at her.

"You've been gone awhile."

"I zeenk she weel be double ze trouble, compared to zees one," smirking over Victoire, she tries to coax him into continuing.

"We're Weasleys, Gabrielle. Always have to be heroes or troublemakers. Take your pick."

"You are like a knight," she decides thoughtfully. She gives him a breathtaking smile and drinks the shot in one swig; "Ze only zing you are missing is a weapon, to defend my _honneur_."

Grinning back, he stands and pulls her out of her chair, telling her as they exit the pub and return to St. Mungo's, she on his arm and Victoire in her own, "I've always said you can get more with a kind word and a two-by-four than you can with just a kind word…"

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_A/N: __Love it? Hate it? Questions, comments, concerns, or insults? Press the review button and lay it on me._


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